“The dark room,” the boy said.
Paul stood up slowly, his knees making a dull popping sound. He looked at the portrait of Roger on the wall, then back at the boy.
“Roger’s business partner has a brick house,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Arthur’s place is only two miles through the woods.”
Paul did not answer. He tapped his thumb against his holster, his eyes fixed on the blue rocket shirt.
“We need to get him into the kitchen,” Paul said. “He looks like he has not eaten a real meal in days.”
I led them into the kitchen, where the yellow linoleum floor felt cold beneath my socks. I took a gallon of milk from the refrigerator, noting the price tag of four dollars still stuck to the plastic jug.
I poured a glass and set it on the table in front of Euan. He reached for it with both hands, drinking in quick, desperate gulps.
“Martha
